


Round, Soft, and Perfect

by Spicy_Leahonade



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: After Armageddon't, Aziraphale is self conscious about his gut, Body Image, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Mentioned Gabriel (Good Omens), My First Fanfic, My First Work in This Fandom, Post-Canon, Protective Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 11:59:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19887361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spicy_Leahonade/pseuds/Spicy_Leahonade
Summary: Ever since Gabriel told Aziraphale to "lose the gut," the angel hasn't been able to get it out of his mind.  He finds himself feeling that somehow he'd unbecoming for an angel and begins to spiral.  Crowley catches on and confronts Aziraphale.





	Round, Soft, and Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> This my first ever fanfic, guys! I hope you all like it. There's mention of body-image and self-hate in here, just so you know. It just kind of stuck with me how rude Gabriel was to Aziraphale and so I kind of wanted to explore maybe Aziraphale's reaction post-Armageddon't. There's a little bit of intimacy, but nothing too steamy.

Aziraphale stared at his reflection in the floor length mirror and then sighed, turned to the side and sighed again, this time a tad bit deeper. It was morning and a few days after Armageddon’t. Life had continued on Earth as it had, albeit with just a few minuscule changes that the humans around Soho didn’t much notice. Like how his shop hadn’t actually burnt down. Or how Crowley’s Bentley was in shipshape condition. Little details like these.

Gabriel and Beelzebub had subsequently agreed to “forget” about his and Crowley’s… shortcomings and now there was relative peace. Which was lovely and Aziraphale was able to go back to rearranging his book collection and perhaps he would finally tackle the stack of new orders he had in the back room. And getting lunch or going for a walk with Crowley was just a ring away and what a lovely idea, that. 

But he couldn’t get Gabriel’s words out of his head about his… gut and how it was unbecoming of an angel to have. It had been several days already since that side comment and still he was reminded of it each time he so much as caught a peek at his reflection. Blast it all, he thought that he was done with caring so deeply about each and every remark Gabriel made towards him. Or any of the other angels, for that matter. Crowley had harped long-windedly about how mean they’d been toward Crowley-as-Aziraphale when they’d done the body swap and Aziraphale had offered up a non-committal grunt when asked if they’d always been like that. He loved them dearly. They were his family and perhaps that was why it still stung to have had Gabriel say such a thing about his form.

Perhaps he’d been on Earth too long and had developed the sort of self-consciousness that was so common among mortals. But then again, he’d always been something of a tittering fool since even before the Garden. He’d given away his flaming sword after all. He didn’t really regret that bit, though it had worried him. He still worried about it from time to time. The sword had becoming War’s weapon, tainted with evil and wielded by one of the Four Horseman. If he’d kept it, would things have turned out different, perhaps?

Oh, but it was no use pondering on that again. Armageddon was halted for now and he had all the time in the world to continue doing the things that brought him joy on Earth. And he’d double enjoy them now, seeing as how close they’d gotten to losing it all. That thought brought him back around to the idea of lunch and then further back around to the whole reason he was still standing in front of the body-length mirror. His gut.

Sighing a third time, Aziraphale turned from the mirror and clasped his hands behind his back, unable to further look at his reflection. His outfit was pristine, tartan and cream and topped off with a lovely gray and maroon bowtie he’d found at a dear little shop down the road. It was the coat that he’d keep in tiptop shape for nearly a hundred years—however it may or may not have been recreated by Adam when he’d been sucked rudely out of Madame Tracy. He had qualms about whether or not it was truly his precious coat, but if he questioned that too much, he’d have even further qualms about whether the books in the bookshop were truly his prized collection or not. And he did not what to conclude that they weren’t.

Aziraphale worked about the shop to whittle the day away and every now and again, he’d see his shape in the reflective arc of something sliver or glass and feel dejected. His clothes may have been pristine and fit snugly which made him feel up to posh, but that did nothing about the rounded curve of his belly and how if he held his face a certain way, he’d see a second chin or two. And that brought up Gabriel’s words so by around lunch, Aziraphale was paralyzed with a strangled throat at the thought that not only was his performance as an angel rather dubious, but he did not fit the basic level of what was becoming of an angel’s appearance. If he ever went back there, oh what a laughing fit they’d had. He knew they thought he’d been down on Earth too long. And perhaps he had! What with his gut and all! Did angels even get guts? The others didn’t need to eat, so of course they wouldn’t. Perhaps he as well did not need human sustenance, but it was such a joy to consume good food that he could hardly deny himself a cup of cocoa or an invite out to dinner. 

Hence, the gut.

“Dear, me, perhaps I should cut back on the eating.” He mumbled to himself, feeling guilt and shame turn his face red with a deep feeling—akin to a rock—forming in his chest. Part of him wished he could miracle it away or change his form. Theoretically, perhaps he could. But that felt like cheating and he disliked that notion. No, this was the body that had been manifested by Adam’s powers just before the end and now it was his one and only temple until Heaven settled its hackles and perhaps welcomed him back. He didn’t want to try anything too drastic with miracling and regret it later. 

Aziraphale was unfamiliar with hate. He’d felt it rarely, mostly at wrongdoings and injustices. Those were easy to hate since they were evil. But this was like hating Crowley. He couldn’t quite do it, but part of him had always told himself he should and that same part had always wanted desperately to. Crowley was a demon but he was also his dearest friend. He couldn’t bring himself to agree with Gabriel that his body was unbecoming for an angel. He still was one after all, and Sandalphon wasn’t especially slim either. But another little part of his heart hated his gut for being there, for being the object of Gabriel’s disapproval. He wanted to cut out his imperfections—since he perceived them to be that way. An angel! An _imperfect_ angel!? The very thought was vexing!

So, it sat there, deep in his throat. Souring his day and deterring him from seeking out a cup of cocoa as he usually made for himself while he read. He declined Crowley’s offer for dinner in exchange for a simple walk and when Crowley went to buy them some ice cream, he declined that as well. Crowley gave him a look from behind his shades, but Aziraphale said nothing more about it. The demon tucked this away in the back of his mind, intending to inquire later. But perhaps Aziraphale had eaten before he’d called and simply wasn’t in the mood for ice cream. So, Crowley’s tucked away thought was soon forgotten as he enjoyed watching the sunset with Aziraphale, who was otherwise completely regular.

It took a few months of watching this strangeness continue for Crowley to decide something was the matter and that he should speak up about it. He knew all of Aziraphale’s quirks and his favorite restaurants and dishes. He loved seeing the light in Aziraphale’s eyes sparkle at the thought of stopping by for a cup of tea and a piece of pie at the café he frequented, or how he’d sigh with pleasure after stuffing himself at a ritzy restaurant downtown. Crowley gleaned immense pleasure himself at showing Aziraphale a new hole in the wall den that had some dish that he knew the angel would like. Always he’d be wary of the place—especially if it was loud and dark and the owners were partial to swearing and tongue rings. But once he tried the dish Crowley recommended, Aziraphale would fall in love and decide everyone there was a new friend and then he’d frequent the place and the humans would fall in love with this quirky, tartan-wearing man who was just head over heels for their restaurant.

Crowley had found a place. He’d wanted to invite Aziraphale there and had waited for a good time to ask, just before dinner when he’d figured Aziraphale would be hankering for something to nibble. Aziraphale usually had been the one to ask Crowley out to eat but for some reason or another Crowley felt that he should prompt Aziraphale this time. And when he’d asked, polite and cunning as ever, Aziraphale had glanced down, fidgeted with his fingers, and declined just as politely. And each time since, he’d done just the same. It was to the point where he and Crowley hadn’t eaten out together for months and now Crowley was just plain worried. He’d been fed up before, feeling like Aziraphale didn’t want to spend time with him for some reason. Perhaps since the Arrangement was off now the angel didn’t feel the need to keep up pretenses about his dislike for Crowley but Crowley didn’t believe that one wit. He _knew_ Aziraphale liked him. Or, at least, he was fairly confident he knew. 

So, something other was bothering Aziraphale. That _had_ to be the case. Otherwise why would the angel drop all the restaurants he’d enjoyed for so long cold turkey? In some cases, the owners themselves were sideways with worry as he’d been their regular for so long. One distraught owner had told Crowley—who he knew by association—that even Mr. Fell’s father had been a regular back when the man’s own father had run the joint. That, of course, had been Aziraphale, but just several decades ago. It was to the point where Crowley felt something needed to be said. And that was a point that Crowley figured was quite difficult to get to.

And it wasn’t just the dinner and lunches and picnics they’d been missing. Aziraphale fidgeted more. He didn’t like it when Crowley tried to pull at his sleeve or grab at him in any manner. He sat further away by several inches and would not shed a layer _ever_ even if that fall was inordinately hot. And some days, he wouldn’t come out of his shop. He wouldn’t even open it—not that he ever really sold anything anyway, but it was the gesture of allowing mortals to at least enter the premise and the pretense of being a running shop that really mattered. His human acquaintances that knew Crowley as well came asking after he politely declined their calls or any meet ups or luncheons, asking if he was well as surely Crowley ought to know. And since Crowley _didn’t_ know, oh, that was just even more infuriating. And worrisome.

So, one evening Crowley invited himself over to Aziraphale’s shop, jimmied the door open, and let himself in. He’d called Aziraphale to ask him out to dinner and _again_ he’d been politely declined. And that was just the last straw. Crowley wanted answers. He’d asked to come over. Aziraphale had stammered out an excuse being busy with some such, so Crowley had hung up, hopped in his Bentley, and sped down to Soho at ninety miles per hour of course.

“Angel? We need to talk.” Crowley called.

Aziraphale came scrambling from the back room still in his suit from the day but without his jacket. He pulled off his spectacles and stammered, “C-Crowley!? What on earth are you doing here? And I’m most certain I had locked the front door!”

Crowley shrugged and sauntered through the shop toward Aziraphale, “Yeah, well, locks aren’t much of a deterrent to a demon. And besides, we need to have a chat.”

Spluttering, Aziraphale tucked away his spectacles, “And it certainly couldn’t have waited until tomorrow?”

“Certainly.” Crowley stopped about a half foot in front of the angel and then leaned down over him, removing his own shades to frown and squint at Aziraphale. The angel didn’t seem to much like that and backed up a few steps before pulling straight his waistcoat as he said, “Well, what is it then? It’s late.”

“You’ve been acting weird lately.”

Aziraphale blinked and fidgeted, “No I haven’t. Whatever do you mean, ‘weird?’ If anything, this kind of visit from you is most irregular.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and straightened, throwing one hand up in the air, “Well, you’ve been out of sorts so I decided to step in, sorry for my concern! You don’t come out to dinner anymore and I’m… well, it’s weird. You love eating out and I—er, well, I’ve been wondering if something’s on your mind er…”

His gray eyes softened and Aziraphale smiled warmly, “I do appreciate your concern, dear, but there’s really nothing to worry about. I’m perfectly tickety-boo!”

Crowley could smell the lie, however much Aziraphale believed he was telling the truth, “Tickety-boo, ay? You know you’re lying, right?”

“Of course, I’m not! I’m an angel!” Aziraphale looked offended, but he was glancing back and forth like he did when he was uncomfortable and his hands had started to wring in response to Crowley’s unwavering golden gaze.

“You are. Maybe you don’t think you are, but I can smell a lie anywhere. Come on, angel, what’s eating at you? You can tell me!” Crowley moved forward to take Aziraphale’s shoulders but when he touched the smaller man, Aziraphale flinched and gently brushed him off, glancing down at the ground as he fidgeted and worried and worried about whatever it was he was worrying about.

Crowley frowned and tried to touch him again and Aziraphale suddenly snapped, “Oh, would you please! P-please don’t!”

The demon paused, flustered at Aziraphale’s outburst and then sent reeling by just how quickly the angel’s face strained with guilty pain as he said, “Oh, dear, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. Really, it’s nothing—”

Crowley called bullshit on that one for the last time, “No, it’s not nothing. What’s going on? Tell me, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale blinked rapidly at Crowley’s use of his full name which was a rare occurrence and generally only one that happened when his friend was very serious. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to share a little. Just a tiny bit so that Crowley wouldn’t worry anymore. 

He didn’t know how to put it to words and felt even worse about himself as he did, but Aziraphale pushed forward, his hands gripping each other tightly, “Well—ahem—well, Gabriel might’ve, er, he might have—this was last week, so before we did the, em, the switch? Ahem, he might have implied—nicely! He was quite nice. Well, decently nice anyway—he might have implied that I have, well, a bit of a gut.” Aziraphale cringed at his own words as they sunk the hooks of self-hate deeper and he bit his lip for a moment to keep it from quivering. After a few seconds, he ploughed onward, “I figured that perhaps I should… shape up a tad. Not eat out so much. That sort of thing.”

Crowley growled, “Gabriel called you fat?! That _prick_!”

“Oh, don’t call him that! And he didn’t! He just said, ‘Lose the gut.’ That’s all!”

“That’s calling you fat, angel! Oh, he _didn’t_ , that absolute, bloody piece of sh—”

Aziraphale put a foot down, “There really is no need for that kind of language, Crowley! And in any case, he’s right, I _should_ slim down—”

Crowley scoffed and began to pace about, “You’re perfect just how you are, angel! Besides, slimming down and being healthy is what humans do, we don’t have to worry about those things. And you’ve always been a bit round. I think it’s endearing.”

The angel huffed and his pressed lips turned downward into a frown, “You don’t understand, Crowley! You’ve always been tall, dark, and handsome. I look like a dumpling.”

“I love dumplings!” Crowley crowed, “Come on, angel, just because Gabriel says something snooty doesn’t mean anything. I thought we’d established that he’s a major dickhead.”

“Yes, well, I still feel… I still feel…” Aziraphale’s voice cracked as he choked out, “I still feel unsightly.”

He seemed to sag a little in defeat before Crowley’s eyes and the demon cursed Gabriel for shooting down Aziraphale’s self-esteem even further. He’d always had a tough time dealing with the angels. Crowley really learned that when he’d switched with the angel to survive their respective punishments. He wanted to scream out his curses and get Aziraphale the shout with him. It would do the angel some good to blow off some steam, but Crowley also knew that while Aziraphale was one to speak his mind, he would never bend enough to slander anyone, _especially_ one of the angels. 

So, Crowley wracked his brain to try and come up something that would soothe Aziraphale’s wounds. But he figured he was shit at saying nice, comforting things, so—as he tended to do—he pulled something out of his ass and ran with it, “Well, Gabriel is a dickhead.”

“Crowley—”

“Ah, ah, ah, let me finish.” Crowley held up a hand to silence Aziraphale’s complaints about his language, “Both Heaven and Hell don’t know shit about us anymore. We’re on our own side now. So, don’t worry too much about what he said. In my opinion, _my_ opinion is the only one that should matter to you anymore and I think…” Crowley stepped forward and took Aziraphale’s shoulders in his hands and this time Aziraphale didn’t flinch away, “I think I like you just the way you are. I always have.”

“Dear…”

“You’re round and soft and perfect, angel.” Aziraphale glanced down with a flushed face, but he didn’t step out of Crowley’s grip so Crowley continued, “Perfect.”

Crowley watched Aziraphale’s brow as he popped the first two buttons on the angel’s waistcoat, growling in a low voice, “You’re the only one I’ve ever had eyes for.”

When he’d finished popping the rest of the buttons on Aziraphale’s waistcoat, the angel stepped a few inches back somewhat reluctantly as he chided, “Oh, my dear… I-I do appreciate that…”

Crowley pouted teasingly as Aziraphale fidgeted and didn’t know what to do with his hands as he wavered between deciding to take off the waistcoat or button it back up. His face was flushed and he was smiling dumbly, the kind of innocent, flustered smile that Crowley loved to dredge up. He glanced up, and then down, and then up again and his hazel eyes hovered tentatively to hold Crowley’s gaze, “You really… you really think I’m…? That I’m… You really like… erm, looking at me?”

“Hah!” Crowley tipped his head back and hawked out a laugh, “Oh, heavens! _Yes_ , you adorable idiot!”

It hadn’t seemed possible, but Aziraphale blushed deeper and then sighed, shrugging out of the waistcoat Crowley had unbuttoned, “Well, that does ease my concerns a little.” he huffed, “Oh and bugger the plan to slim down anyways! It’s been months since I’ve eaten anything and I haven’t seen any results! I could _kill_ for a piece of cake and some cocoa!”

“I’d like to see that.” Crowley leaned down a little over Aziraphale and the angel, red as ever, bumped a fist against Crowley’s chest in protest, “Oh, you know what I mean! A figure of speech!”

Grinning slyly, Crowley didn’t back away and pulled apart the bowtie around the angel’s neck, “Well, perhaps I could tempt you to a slice? If, by pure chance, I had a cake from that café you like in the Bentley…?”

Aziraphale didn’t flinch as Crowley tugged the bowtie off completely and further impressed Crowley when he didn’t move as the demon softly, gently drew the backs of his fingers down the curve of the angel’s belly. They were close now. Close enough that both could feel each other’s warm breaths. 

Crowley offered his hands and Aziraphale carefully slipped his own into the demon’s. Then, Crowley whispered, “I take that as a yes?”

“Well…” Aziraphale rubbed his thumbs against the backs of Crowley’s fingers, “I shouldn’t…”

Crowley pumped Aziraphale’s hands as he grumbled, “Uggh, come on! You’re fine, angel! We’ve spent 6000 years together, me ‘tall, dark, and handsome’ and you ‘round, soft, and perfect.’ Stop keeping yourself from the things you like because you feel guilty and bad about liking something!”

Aziraphale balked a little at Crowley’s fervor and the demon took a few breaths, trying not to get too loud. If he flustered up Aziraphale anymore the angel wouldn’t listen, he wouldn’t _hear_ what Crowley meant. So, Crowley calmed down his voice and squeezed Aziraphale’s hands, “You know it’s okay to like things, right? That it’s _good_ to like things?”

Aziraphale gave him a little bit of a doubtful look, probably thinking he was up to his no-good demon wiles again, “Yes…”

Crowley let a little smile peek onto his lips, “So? That cake isn’t going to eat itself.”

“But—” Aziraphale looked down piteously at his gut and said in a small, stubborn voice like it was a bad thing, “I’m already …soft.”

Pulling the angel close to him so that their fronts were touching, Crowley whispered, “That’s fine by me.”

“…Truly?”

The look in his eyes killed Crowley ten times over and he sighed into Aziraphale’s hair as he drew the angel into a tender hug, “Yes, angel. It’s always going to be yes.”

Crowley shivered when Aziraphale placed his warm, plump hands on the demon’s back and reciprocated his hug, “Well, in that case. I suppose one slice wouldn’t harm.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you want to follow me on Tumblr, here's a link: https://giraffyhat.tumblr.com/   
> I've been on a bit of a Good Omens kick recently, hence the fanfic


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